


Dark Times and Butterflies

by NimbusRen



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Emotional Hurt, F/M, Harry Potter and the Cursed Child Compliant, Post-Hogwarts, Pre-Epilogue, Repressed Memories
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-03
Updated: 2018-01-18
Packaged: 2019-02-27 19:59:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 15,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13255548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NimbusRen/pseuds/NimbusRen
Summary: Five years after the end of the Second Wizarding War Draco Malfoy finds himself leading an empty life.  With changes fast approaching, including his inevitable pure-blood marriage, Draco knows he must strive to rediscover his enthusiasm for a future that’s lost its light.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This has been a long time in the making. A very long time. 
> 
> Please note that, while I would not consider this a 'depression-fic' as such, some elements of this story may be upsetting to readers who find depictions of depression a sensitive topic. If you think this includes you, please read at your own caution.

It was a bright and mildly breezy Tuesday afternoon when Draco Malfoy realised he no longer cared.

He supposed he’d known it for a while – how long exactly, he could not be sure – but hadn’t wanted to admit it to himself. He wasn’t entirely sure why; what had he been hoping for exactly? That life would somehow go back to the way it once was?

When the war had ended, he had still been a boy. He knew this because, for a brief period, he had lived with the expectation that all that had happened would disappear into the past and life – his proper life – would carry on from where it left off. But it hadn’t. He’d supposed later that it hadn’t really been an expectation at all, but rather a hope – a stupid, childish hope – because that was what kept him going during the period after.

That period was over now. He was the same person, but he was also different. He’d stopped allowing himself to hope, because it was not going to happen. 

There was a very big difference between how he felt now and how he had felt when the war had first ended. He remembered clear as day the morning of the 2nd May 1998. It was the longest morning of his life and yet, at the same time, it had all gone by in a daze.

He remembered the deafening buzz of hundreds of voices of hundreds of survivors. The screams of relief and of grief. The chatter of hundreds of people whose futures stretched out before them but who, just for that moment, could revel in the glory of timelessness. He remembered the unity of the occasion. A unity he and his family had watched from afar.

He remembered the utter solitude of that distance. A solitude that had lasted long after order had returned to the world, when the newly reformed Ministry had stepped up as leaders one again, when those remaining in the Hall had departed to their corners of the world to carry on with the lives they had put on hold, when the villains were rounded up and the heroes were honoured. When life had gone on.

And the next few years had drifted past in what seemed like roughly the same timeframe as that morning.

His family’s name had been cleared – legally, at least. It was obvious before anyone had even given it thought that the Malfoys would not belong to this new world as they had done to the world that came before.

If Draco had thought his home life would change once the war had ended, he was both right and wrong. 

Lucius Malfoy was not an impressive man any more. It simply couldn’t be denied. He was no longer welcome in a Ministry that no longer shared his values. Despite this, Draco’s father had been no more than discouraged by the war’s outcome, as far as Draco could tell anyway. While his world had crumbled and all he believed in had sunk into the abyss left behind, Lucius Malfoy had slithered into the new dawn with his tail between his legs, just as he had done at the end of the previous Wizarding war, and just as he would do until the day he died.

But Draco, for all his doting and for all his affection, knew now what his father was. Lucius Malfoy was a broken man. He was a broken man who would never – possibly could never – admit to it. Lucius Malfoy was a man who would never redeem himself in a world to which he had been exposed for what he really was, and he would see this as the world’s failing instead of his own. He was an uncovered goat who still thought himself a chimera. And Draco had slowly learned to live with the painful revelation that his father was human.

On Draco’s part, life at Malfoy Manor had become like a very extended school holiday, just without the company of his father’s now disbanded colleagues. There was little need for him to go out and even less desire. Instead, he had had an awful lot of time to think and an awful lot of time to feel, and he hadn’t liked doing either at all. He was a different person to who he had been before and yet, somehow, as the world trudged on around him, he remained exactly where he was.

His mother was the strong one, which he had discovered while the Dark Lord had taken over his home. Narcissa Malfoy, despite all she had witnessed and all she had been through herself, carried on with life as though they’d had nothing worse than an aggressive bout of Dragon Pox. Life for Narcissa was hard but never impossible and certainly never worthless. It was because of Narcissa that the three of them had all walked free – or as free as eternally distrusted folk would ever be. It was Narcissa who had woken the family up on the morning of the 3rd of May and had continued to live as normally as she could manage ever since, and who had encouraged her husband and son to do so too.

Time went by and life carried on. Hobbies became distractions which became habits. The throbbing ache of grief, the memory of terror and the guilt never lessened but did become easier to ignore. Draco had regained the ability to compartmentalise his thoughts and to numb those he didn’t like. The problem was that there were an awful lot of them.

Though the war may be won, the dark times were far from over.


	2. Chapter 2

Draco Malfoy was twenty-two years old when he met Astoria. Of course, it was not actually the first time they had met since they had shared a Common Room for five years, but it was on that afternoon that he would later consider them to have met officially.

His mother had told him the Greengrasses would be coming for afternoon tea – presumably upon her invite – and Draco had promptly forgotten, as he did with much of what his mother said to him these days. He had jumped somewhat when a wrap on the Manor’s library door disturbed him from the manuscript he was poring over for no reason other than having nothing better to do, and his mother informed him brusquely of the Greengrasses’ arrival. Draco, who had been immersed in the connections of the planets and the seven alchemical metals, was not grateful for the interruption, but slunk down to the drawing room anyway (like he had much choice). It was easy to live each day as his parents arranged it.

The Greengrasses were already settled when Draco entered the room. Mr Greengrass was a sharp-looking man with a dark, pointed goatee; he was sitting armchair in the corner of the room, leaning towards Draco’s father, with whom he was deep in conversation. Mrs Greengrass and her two daughters were perched on one of the sofas, the former chattering away with Narcissa.

He had met the Greengrass family a few times before, being acknowledged members of the Sacred Twenty-Eight truly pure-blood families, and his arrival in the room was noted briefly before both conversations resumed. Draco would very much have preferred to take his tea over to his favourite chair by the fireplace at the other end of the room, but instead settled himself next to his mother. Daphne Greengrass, who was opposite him, caught Draco’s eye and they gave each other a fleeting smile of recognition. Daphne had been friends with Pansy Parkinson at school, but she and Draco had never been close. While the Greengrasses were pure-blood, he had never seen as much of them at the Manor as some of the other families since, as far as Draco knew, their allegiance to the Dark Lord had never been pledged outright, whatever their views might have been.

“...what with Harry Potter’s engagement to the Weasley girl,” Mrs Greengrass was saying to Narcissa. “It’s all the Daily Prophet can talk about these days.”

Narcissa scoffed. 

“And I was saying to Daphne just the other day, it should be any day now we hear of the Parkinson girl’s wedding plans, wasn’t I Daphne?”

Daphne nodded her agreement. Draco found he wasn’t very interested. He knew from experience that there was little need to insert himself into the flow of gossip between the two women. It was a remarkable talent that all women seemed to possess to talk endlessly about nothing in particular.

Both of the Greengrass girls sat silently on either side of their mother, apparently following the conversation intently. Draco could not remember ever having spoken to Astoria. She was two years younger than him and had a look of both her parents and sister.

“...Lord knows how the Selwyns reacted to that,” Mrs Greengrass was saying now.

Draco’s attention was drifting. His hand was getting sweaty around his tea cup; his fingers itched for the crisp parchment of his manuscript. The sun was connected to gold which Draco also knew was associated with the heart; the moon was connected to silver which was associated with the brain...

“...I can only hope they’ll find a replacement...” said Narcissa.

Mercury was, of course, connected with mercury or quicksilver, as it was otherwise known. And that was connected to the kidneys. Or was that copper?

“...with the Weasleys living out of Harry Potter’s pocket,” said Mrs Greengrass.

It was just over there that Draco didn’t identify Potter to the Dark Lord when they brought him here and his face was mangled and his father thought it could be the Malfoy’s redemption and Aunt Bellatrix had tortured that goblin and Hermione Granger about that sword they had and Draco didn’t want to think about this-

“...isn’t that right, Draco?” his mother said.

“Mm,” Draco agreed, without a clue what he was agreeing to.

The chatter went on for so long that the Greengrasses were invited to stay for lunch, much to Draco’s dismay. While he and his parents always ate together, mealtimes were often a solitary event in the Malfoy household. Despite being in one another’s presence it was not unusual for one or more Malfoy – Draco especially – to drift through their meal behind the barrier of their own private thoughts. Eating times were as quiet as the rest of Draco’s life at the Manor.

It was very difficult to ignore the world outside his head when the world insisted on intruding. He could still make a good effort, though.

Draco found himself seated next to Daphne Greengrass, although he couldn’t have said much about how he’d got from the sofa to the dining room table. At the parents’ end of the table (his father occupied his usual seat at its head and his mother sat opposite Mr and Mrs Greengrass) the conversation endured as it had done back in the days when the Malfoys were used to entertaining.

Daphne appeared to be in the mood to make conversation. She asked Draco what he had been up to recently. Draco answered vaguely then turned the question back round to her in order to give himself a few moments to eat in silence while she answered him. He continued to use this method for the remainder of the meal, occasionally nodding but not really listening. He barely noticed when the whole table fell silent and was caught by surprise when he glanced up from his plate to find everybody staring at him.

“Um – sorry?” he asked the parents’ end of the table, assuming the question he’d missed had come from over there.

“We were wondering if you’ve heard from the Zabini boy recently?” asked his mother.

You know I haven’t, Draco thought.

“Er – no; I haven’t,” he said. He felt like he ought to add something else of interest to his comment but nothing came to him and his mother was speaking to the Greengrasses again so his input was no longer needed. And so he went back to trying to placate Daphne.

Draco was thoroughly relieved when the Greengrasses finally decided it was time to leave after what had felt like the longest afternoon he had experienced in several months. He had begun to wonder if they would ever go.

He was on the verge of slipping upstairs and back to the planets and their metals when his parents cornered him and he realised he wasn’t free from forced company just yet. His mother and father were agreeing on what a pleasant afternoon they had just enjoyed, what good company Mr and Mrs Greengrass were, despite Mrs Greengrass’ terrible taste in perfume, when Narcissa turned to her son.

“And such a charming pair of girls, don’t you think Draco?”

“Mm,” said Draco.

“You and Daphne seemed to be talking non-stop at the table.”

“Mm,” Draco repeated.

“What did you talk about?”

“Oh-“ said Draco. He honestly couldn’t remember. “Just...this and that.”

“It’s so lovely to have a good chit-chat once in a while, isn’t, and especially with such a pleasant girl?”

“Lovely,” Draco agreed.

“And hasn’t it been nice to have the company of friends at the Manor? We really should do more of this like we used to.”

Draco said nothing.

“Although it is a shame about all the issues they’ve had with Astoria,” said Narcissa, turning back to Lucius. “She did look sickly, even today, didn’t you think?”

“She did,” said Lucius. “But few families are without their skeletons.”

“Such a shame,” Narcissa repeated.

Draco sensed his role in the conversation was no longer necessary and decided to make his escape.

“I think I’ll – uh ... head back upstairs,” he told his parents and turned to do so before they could argue.

The smile Narcissa gave his turned back as he ascended the stairs was only mildly sickening.


	3. Chapter 3

Draco was curled into his usual chair by the window, his focus on nothing in particular and his mind far away. Another manuscript lay forgotten in his lap.

To an outsider, Draco’s sudden fascination with alchemy may have been seen as a source of joy. But, in truth, Draco’s endless days in the dusty sunlight that filtered through the Manor’s windows and onto his favourite chair were more the result of habit that enjoyment. The intricacies of alchemical processes and beliefs were certainly of interest to him and Potions was something he had always excelled in during his school days, but the hours Draco had recently devoted to the experiments and philosophies of scholars now long gone were more the product of a lack of anything else to do than actual pleasure. Draco had no intention of becoming an alchemist and even less intention of so much as attempting to create his own Philosopher’s Stone, not least because he severely doubted his ability to do so. But at least, through the retention of the ancient knowledge he absorbed, Draco felt like he was achieving something.

He had tried, in the early days, to rebuild his Quidditch skills, having barely played since sometime around his sixth year at school. It was not an ability he should lose, with all the time he had devoted as a child to being the best player he could be, or so he had decided.

Once, a broomstick had meant freedom. There was a sheer satisfaction in the way the wind had felt shrieking in his ears, streaming through his hair and his clothes, biting his very skin. There were times he could have sworn he was unstoppable. He was good, he knew he was, even after he’d been forced to accept that he would never be the best.

But on the few occasions Draco had taken his broom out since leaving school, he had found himself feeling something he’d never thought he could feel in the limitlessness of the air: bored. Because when something is limitless there is no end goal; there is nothing to strive for and no finishing point to look forward to. Airborne over the grounds of the Manor, even with the wind brushing his skin, he couldn’t help but feel rather pointless. A broomstick had once meant freedom; now it was just a broom. His old Nimbus 2001 had not been touched in months. Draco supposed it meant he had grown up.

Unfortunately, it was not just airborne that Draco found himself somewhat dissatisfied. Visitors to the Manor was a significantly scarcer event than before the war and what company they did have Draco found himself enduring rather than enjoying. Leaving the Manor was largely out of the question; the public was not a particularly pleasant place for people with more enemies than friends.

Draco had long outgrown the age for playing and Lucius’ Dark artefacts, while still of interest, no longer maintained either the allure or the esteem that Draco had once attributed to them. Draco’s attention rarely held for long enough to make it through a decent chunk of a book at a time and there were only so many times per day a person could flick through the pages of the Daily Prophet.

Draco had always had the ability to filter his life – something he’d once been rather proud of. It was a useful skill, to be able to strain away empathy, pity, remorse; he’d have gone mad if he hadn’t. Nowadays, however, he had the opposite problem: he was finding himself unable to feel very much at all.

It had been his strength in the early days post-war. Any unwelcome emotion, he ignored; anything he didn’t want to remember, he pushed away to the back of his mind, to wait for another date. The trouble was, the habit had become so constant that he now struggled to muster any emotion altogether. Life was rather dull without feeling.

Thus it was he had taken to seeking refuge in the words of ancient minds. There was a chair in a corner of the library by some shelves that he was rather fond of, close enough to the window to allow him a view of a portion of the Manor’s grounds, but just enough in shadow to allow him to not feel a part of them.

The initial idea had been to drown out his present through reading; as though, by filling his thoughts with the theories and information of people much wiser than he would ever be, there would be no room left for brooding of his own. Sadly, though, the words were never forceful enough without a reader’s passion, and the print soon blurred on the page. It was difficult for a distraction to be distracting when you were too easily distracted from it, such was the case today and the day before and the day before that...

A ray of sunshine just touched the paragraph Draco had forgotten. His right hand rested on the opposite page, now black with ink.

Eventually he would realise that his back was aching and he’d lost all feeling in his arse. Or else he’d discover that he hadn’t eaten for hours, or visited the bathroom for just as long. But for now he was miles away, wrapped in his broodings, his brain as numb as his buttocks.

***

A large, blond man writhed on the floor, illuminated in his agony by the red light of the fire. His screams burned through Draco’s eardrums and Draco’s wand was shaking in his hand.

And still his master wanted more, his high, cold voice piercing through the shrieks drawn from the flailing body beneath him by Draco’s own hand.

“...do it, or feel my wrath yourself!”

Draco’s wand felt like it may slip from his sweat-drenched palm but once again he felt his own mouth, heard his own voice, forming the curse-

NO.

Draco wasn’t going to think about that.


	4. Chapter 4

It was only three weeks after their previous visit that Draco was informed the Greengrass women would be stopping at the Manor again for afternoon tea. Draco was thoroughly taken aback; nowadays it was unusual to have two visits from anybody at the Manor in such a short space of time, never mind from the same group of people. When the three women actually showed up in the early afternoon, Draco was even more surprised. A little voice at the back of his mind had been under the impression that his mother must have made a mistake.

Why Narcissa wanted Draco to join them for tea but not his father, he wasn’t entirely sure. He was, he supposed, a similar age to both Greengrass girls but, surrounded by four women and the family’s delicate china, he felt entirely out of place. Upon entering the room he had attempted to take the armchair usually occupied by his father, but had instead found himself ushered onto a sofa next to Daphne and the chair, which was on Draco’s other side, was offered to Astoria. Draco didn’t believe for one minute that either could be pleased with the seating arrangements after the poor company he’d been during their previous visit but, since their mothers were already chattering away in a corner a little way away from the three of them, it looked like they had little choice.

Once again, Daphne attempted to make conversation.

“Have you heard about Theodore Nott?”

“Er – no,” said Draco, feeling somewhat uncomfortable.

“The Ministry did a raid on his house the other day – you know he’s lived alone since his father’s imprisonment?”

“Uh-huh,” said Draco.

“Well, the Ministry found all sorts of Artefacts they didn’t like – cursed objects and other sorts of curio, you know,” Daphne told him. “Some of them, apparently, were home-made and half-finished. You remember what he was like at school? How he was always buried in some enchantment he was working on?”

Draco nodded. He did actually know this, but hadn’t been too bothered when his parents had shared the news over breakfast a few days ago. Behind him he could hear the gentle shuffling of Astoria drinking her tea. He felt a little awkward on her behalf, being blanked from both her mother’s and sibling’s conversation. Having no siblings himself, he wasn’t certain whether it was his or Daphne’s responsibility to attempt to include her. Either way, neither of them was trying.

“Anyway,” Daphne continued. “He managed to get away with claiming they were his father’s and had nothing to do with him – a likely story – and the Ministry couldn’t prove it otherwise. I suppose only an idiot like him would leave illegal objects lying around in days like these.”

“Mm,” said Draco, who knew full well that his father still kept numerous items of a dubious nature in cases throughout the Manor. As long as the Ministry couldn’t prove they were being used against other Wizards, there was no issue.

There were a few moments of silence as he and Daphne sipped their tea. Words from their mothers’ conversation drifted over to them.

“-wedding next year. It’s a wonder the boy will be able to take time away from playing the Law Enforcement Department’s hero,” Mrs Greengrass scoffed.

They were gossiping about Harry Potter and the Weasley girl. As often as Draco’s mother had claimed not to have the slightest interest in the affairs of the Wizarding World’s sweethearts, she seemed to have managed to drop mention of engagements and weddings into every other conversation.

The realisation hit Draco with the force of a boulder. The reason the Greengrass women were back so soon and why he was now squeezed into a small space with someone he barely knew. He couldn’t believe quite how stupid he was being– he had even told Narcissa what a lovely person Daphne supposedly was. His mother was trying to match make.

Draco was not entirely sure why fury bubbled up in his stomach, through his chest and into his cheeks with such ferocity. His mother had not exactly done him any wrong. But, for whatever reason, Draco’s brain now fuzzed with what seemed to be a mixture of anger and humiliation. She may be his mother, but she had no right to prod into his personal life in this way. His forehead and cheeks were burning; he was certain both must be turning pink.

The Greengrasses were in on it too; there was no question about it. Why else would they return to the Manor so shortly after their last visit if not for the expectation of yet another upcoming betrothal for their amusement? Well, Draco would not be playing along. Shifting fully in his seat, Draco turned his back firmly on Daphne, leaned across the arm of the sofa and addressed Astoria.

“So, where have your family hidden your interesting heirlooms?”

Astoria’s eyes widened a little at the sudden attention, but she smirked into her tea.

“What makes you think we have anything to hide?”

“Every family has its skeletons,” he smirked back, realising a moment later that he was mimicking his father.

“If you say so,” Astoria retorted and took a long sip of tea. She was slightly weedier than her sister, but still pretty. Her eyes had a mild glimmer when they met his again. Daphne shuffled behind him.

“What have you been up to since finishing school?” Draco asked Astoria slightly hurriedly before Daphne had the chance to speak.

“This and that,” Astoria replied. “Mostly contemplating the sheer importance and specialness of my place in the world and how I’m to gift the Wizarding community with the remainder of my life.”

“And how are you getting on with that?” Draco sniggered.

“Extremely poorly,” Astoria smiled back. “And I’m very much enjoying it.”

“Well, that’s good to hear.”

“Mostly I’m concentrating on not turning into my mother.”

“I hope you’re doing a better job at that.”

“I’m working much harder at it. Have you become your father yet?”

“I hope not. Although I do find myself accidentally quoting him from time to time.”

“Oh dear, it looks like you’re already part-way gone.”

“Drat,” said Draco.

“Hopefully you’re still redeemable,” Astoria smiled over her teacup.

“Hopefully,” Draco repeated. There was a sound like a pair of cackling hyenas from their mothers’ side of the room as both chortled with laughter. “Although maybe I’ve not got the worst deal of the pair of us,” Draco added.

Astoria snorted into her tea. Daphne made a noise that sounded like “Hmph”.

“Have you found your true calling yet?” Astoria asked Draco.

“If my true calling involves wandering aimlessly through my father’s collections then yes, I’m doing an excellent job,” he told her.

“Well done,” Astoria praised him. “At least that means I have another two years or so before I should start worrying.”

“You’re twenty now?”

“I am.”

“I’d like to tell you that twenty’s an excellent year, but I’m afraid it wasn’t too different from twenty-two for me. Or twenty-one, for that matter.”

“Don’t worry, I’ve already lived through twenty once,” said Astoria, nodding towards her sister. “I wasn’t expecting too much.” Draco didn’t look to see Daphne’s response.

“At least you’re well informed,” he shrugged.

A lull in the buzz of chatter from their mothers’ side of the room indicated that the conversation was drawing to a close. Draco and the girls finished their tea in silence and it wasn’t long before the Greengrasses were leaving once again. Astoria gave Draco a wide grin before she went.

Whatever enjoyment Draco had felt during their banter vanished the moment his mother turned to face him. She wore the smugly jolly expression of someone who felt they had succeeded in a job well done. Something unpleasant began to boil in Draco’s stomach once more.

“Well,” she said in a merry tone. “Another thoroughly pleasant afternoon.”

“Don’t ever try that again,” said Draco quietly.

Narcissa’s face fell.

“I beg your pardon?”

“I know exactly what you were doing.” Draco’s voice was like stone. “I am not interested in Daphne Greengrass.”

“Draco...”

“Don’t try to deny it.”

“Draco please-“

“No,” said Draco, his voice rising with his temper. “I will not have you setting me up like that-“

“Your father and I have been worried about you. You’ve barely seen anyone your own age recently. It’s not normal for a boy your age-“

“How dare you,” Draco snapped. “How dare you treat me like your pawn.”

“Draco-“

“How dare you try and play with my life like this-”

“We thought this was what you needed,” Draco took a malicious pleasure in noticing the skin around her eyes turn red. “We thought some company would do you good-“

“I DON’T THINK IT WAS COMPANY YOU HAD IN MIND-“

“What in Merlin’s name is going on?”

Draco spun around. He hadn’t realised how loud his voice had risen. Lucius was descending the stairs.

“Were you in on this?” Draco turned on his father, his voice shaking with fury.

“In on what?”

“Have you been trying to set me up too? Been working your way through all your friends’ little pure-blood daughters? Ticking them off one by one-“

“How dare you speak to us like this,” Lucius snarled. But Draco noted that Lucius had immediately worked out what he was talking about which only confirmed everything further which sent Draco into an even further rage.

“I WILL NOT HAVE YOU MEDDLING IN MY LIFE!” he yelled.

“WE ARE YOUR PARENTS AND WE WILL TREAT YOU AS WE PLEASE-“

“OH YEAH? AND HASN’T THAT TURNED OUT WELL BEFORE? WASN’T SELLING ME OFF TO THE DARK LORD ENOUGH FOR YOU?”

For a moment Draco thought his father was going to hit him. Lucius’ breath came out in sharp puffs, his face red.

“Draco...” Narcissa whispered behind him. Draco could hear the tears in her voice and a small stab of guilt punctured his anger.

Lucius spoke again in a voice of forced steadiness.

“Your mother and I are fed up with your moping. You are behaving childishly and selfishly. You will snap out of it and learn, regardless of what we may have brought you up to believe, that the world does not revolve around you.”

Lucius stalked back up the stairs leaving Draco seething. Draco rounded on his mother. Her eyes were wet.

“Draco, I’m so sorry...” she whispered.

Draco felt a sudden urge to hug his mother. But he didn’t.

“I’m sorry too,” he said back quietly.

“We only want you to be happy,” Narcissa told him.

“I know.”

“If only you’d make an effort. It would do you so much good...“

A coldness settled on Draco’s chest like frost.

“You’re taking his side,” he said blankly.

“No. I’m not taking anyone’s side. I’m just saying that if you tried to see things from your father’s perspective, it would be so much easier. For everyone-“

Draco turned on his heel and flounced off in his father’s footsteps.


	5. Chapter 5

Time was said to be healing.

***

The first year or so after the war ended had been the worst. For the first couple of weeks, life had gone on as normally as it could. And then the terror had begun.

The Dark Lord had used the Manor as his base for the best part of a year. Every other corner of Draco’s home held a memory. Every other crevice reminded him of something he wanted to forget.

...There was the table in the drawing room over which Professor Burbage’s twitching figure had hung ... where he had witnessed the light leave her eyes. He had passed out before seeing what had happened to her body next...

...There was the bench on which Draco and Theodore Nott had sat, out of the way of their fathers’ grown up business, and spouted their childish views on life...

Draco had come of age and barely noticed. He had entered his sixth Year at school certain he was almost a man. By the end of that year he had never felt more like a boy.

At first Draco was angry with himself. In fact, there were times he was furious. His mother continued as close to the way she always had, Draco knew, because she felt she had to. Because that was how Narcissa survived. Narcissa who had made the Unbreakable Vow behind the Dark Lord’s back for Draco’s safety. Narcissa who had lied to the Dark Lord’s face in order to reach her son. Narcissa who had kept the family out of prison. Narcissa held the family together.

Even Lucius, whose fault, Draco had decided, the whole thing had been, continued to play his role just as he had always done. There was a part of Draco that hated his father for that. There was no point pretending now that the name of Malfoy still mattered in the wider world – not in any way that would do them any favours, at least. But, amongst Lucius’ circles – what remained of them – he was just as wily, just as artful as ever. Lucius was a man who took advantage wherever he could; it was something he had learned from his own father who had learned it from his father who had learned it from his father, and so on. It was something he had spent over two decades drumming into Draco, too. The Malfoys were people who never stopped gaining, no matter what they lost along the way.

Draco, on the other hand, quite simply could not pretend that things would slowly shift back to normal, nor could he play the role of the person he once had been. That was not to say that he hadn’t tried. He had, in fact, tried everything he could think of.

He had attempted to interact with his parents just as he had before. But Draco’s view of his mother and father had been skewed and warped by the horrors they had let into their home and no longer were they the protectors or the role models he had once held in such esteem. He may be their son, but he was no longer their child.

He had tried to leave the house of his own accord on more than a couple of occasions but he could not get over the suspicion that he was hated, whether actively or simply as a product of his own paranoia.

He had even tried to reflect on himself, wondering what it was it wanted, what desires he sought for his future, pondering the person he wanted to be and how he should achieve it. But about his own life, Draco could muster very little enthusiasm. His wants and his dreams were arbitrary at best; marriage, children. Happiness. Narrowing them down far enough to work out what he should do with each day was another matter and one that seemed virtually ungraspable.

...There was the concealed entrance to the underground chamber where his father still hid his Dark artefacts and which had held prisoners throughout that year ... Mr Ollivander from whom Draco had purchased his first wand ... the nutty Lovegood girl from the Year below him at school ... even, briefly, Potter and Weasley, along with Dean Thomas from Gryffindor and that goblin ... that was where they had found Pettigrew’s body...

Entertaining himself had never been something he had ever had an issue with before and never before had Draco put himself to bed with such a sense of dissatisfaction of how he had spent each day.

The chocolate frog cards he had worked for years to collect were decorated cardboard. Reading fiction was meaningless because none of it had ever happened. Nothing on the wireless grabbed him because none of it particularly mattered.

Bizarrely, though, Draco could not say that he was unhappy which was certainly what he thought he should be feeling. If anything, he was nothing more than bored. And that was the worst part of it. He was bored of his complete inability to enjoy himself. He was bored of every activity he attempted feeling utterly pointless. He was bored of going to bed dissatisfied at yet another wasted day of his very finite life. He was bored with the complete absence of any other sort of feeling in his life. He was bored at being so bloody irritated with himself for constantly being bored. He felt as though his spirit had gone on holiday and decided not to return.

And so he had seen no choice other than to accept the situation exactly as he saw it. Draco Malfoy felt nothing and that was just the way it now was. There was no point in trying to overcome it because it wasn’t meant to happen. Nothing was meant to be. Everything quite simply was. Draco Malfoy continued to exist because he may as well, but he didn’t do very much else. Draco Malfoy had given up.


	6. Chapter 6

It had not been long before the increasingly familiar sense of what an awful person he was had risen into Draco’s throat like bile. It was a feeling that had hovered over him like a persistent mist for a long time and for various, usually very general reasons, but today it was much closer to home.

He had angered his father and reduced his own mother to tears. While he still resented their determination to make important life choices on his behalf, their intentions had been in the right place. Well, his mother’s had been at least. Narcissa only wanted what was best for her son and, Draco had had to remind himself, her judgement had been pretty sound in the past. It was because of Narcissa’s interference with the Dark Lord’s schemes that the Malfoys walked free and retained what they had left of their lives before the war.

Draco would have liked to have said that his decision to see the Greengrasses again had been noble – a means of apologising for the way he had spoken to his mother and father – but really it was nothing more than an attempt to rid himself of the nagging feeling of guilt that was tugging at his chest. Which, if anything, made him feel even worse.

His mother told him that he didn’t have to do it, that it was up to him whether he saw the Greengrass sisters or not; but her face had lit up as she spoke and it was clear that she was thrilled. It took very little persistence on Draco’s part before she allowed him to humour her.

“You did look so comfortable with the girls,” Narcissa cooed, placing a hand on her son’s arm. “I haven’t seen you so relaxed for years. It’ll do you so much good to spend more time with people your own age.”

“Well, I did enjoy talking to Astoria,” Draco admitted humbly.

And soon arrangements were being made for the three Greengrass women to come for tea yet again the following afternoon. Draco managed to keep his newfound humility throughout the remainder of that day and the following morning and Narcissa thankfully kept her enthusiasm at bay, barely bringing the subject of the Greengrasses’ next visit up over dinner. Lucius hardly acknowledged the topic in return, although Draco suspected this was more because he hadn’t yet forgiven his son for his outburst.

Draco’s coolness slipped somewhat at the Greengrasses’ arrival that afternoon.

Oh God, what am I doing?

Nevertheless, he managed to force his face into an expression he hoped was reasonably pleasant.

It was a sunny afternoon, so tea was taken outside. Lucius had hidden himself somewhere in an upper storey of the Manor and Draco thought longingly of his favourite armchair in his favourite secluded corner.

Daphne barely acknowledged Draco as she took her place by her mother, but Astoria caught his eye and gave him a small smile, which he returned. The spindly table was not designed for five and it wasn’t long before Narcissa suggested Draco show Astoria around the garden. Mrs Greengrass thought this was an excellent idea and so Draco had no choice but to lead the youngest Greengrass across the lawn. Their mothers continued their nattering the moment they were out of the way, while Daphne, who had been all but ignored from arrival, looked as though the table before her smelt strongly of dung.

Draco and Astoria walked slowly, Astoria admiring the flowerbeds.

“What are these?” she asked him, gesturing towards a cluster of tall, purplish flowers that bloomed in great puffy balls.

“I’ve no idea,” said Draco.

“No, me neither. They’re pretty, though.”

The continued through the beds, avoiding peacock droppings as they walked. An offender ambled in front of them, its white head bobbing jauntily. The perfume from the flower heads was pungent in the sun.

“Have you heard about the whole Theodore Nott case?” Astoria asked conversationally.

“I know he’s in trouble over some artefacts,” Draco answered, remembering his conversation with Daphne – or, rather, her conversation at him.

“He got off with a warning,” Astoria told him. “They couldn’t prove any of the items they found had actually been used. It was in the paper this morning.”

“Oh,” said Draco. “That’s good. For him.”

“You used to be friends with him, didn’t you?”

“Not really,” Draco shrugged. “Our fathers knew each other. He came over once or twice.”

But, of course, Astoria already knew that the Malfoys and the Notts had worked together. The whole wizarding world did. The weight in Draco’s chest became a little heavier.

“I take it you don’t see much of the old lot anymore?” Astoria asked.

“Not as much as we used to,” Draco responded. Both of them knew what he meant.

“Now that both my sister and I are home for good, we’ve been working hard and rekindling old family friendships.”

“At your parents’ insistence, I assume?” said Draco.

“I’m sure they simply don’t want us to be lonely.”

“I thought as much.”

“Anyway, it’s been surprising to discover just how many of our family friends happen to be young men around our age.”

“Unmarried ones?”

“However did you know?” Astoria smiled. “Weddings are pretty much all Daphne and I hear about these days. Apparently the Parkninsons and the Selwyns are soon to be happily united.”

“God help them.”

“And the Potters and the Weasleys.”

“God help the world.”

“You’re not expecting an invite to the wedding, then?”

“Merlin, I hope not.”

They smirked at one another.

“It all seems silly doesn’t it?” said Astoria, suddenly serious. “After everything that happened. Just ... the normality of it.”

Draco didn’t answer. He watched the ground as he walked.

“I know it’s been years since the war ended, but you’d have thought people’s priorities might have moved beyond whose family’s marrying into whose.”

“Wars have been fought since the dawn of time,” said Draco. “People never change.”

“Individuals do. But society as a whole never learns.”

“You think you’ve changed?” Draco asked her.

“Well ...” said Astoria. “Are you the same person you were before the war?”

“No,” Draco admitted.

The peacock honked loudly from somewhere over to their left.

“It must have been horrific,” Astoria said quietly. “Having the Dark Lord in your own home.”

A collection of murky images bubbled at the forefront of Draco’s mind. A prisoner in the cells ... a Death Eater writhing on the floor ... a corpse-

“Yes,” said Draco, a little more sharply that he’d meant to. “It was.”

Astoria didn’t press the issue, for which he was grateful. His heart was thudding. He needed to change the subject.

“My mother said you’re ill?”

“Oh,” Astoria hesitated a little. Draco realised a moment too late this had been an entirely insensitive topic to approach. “It’s a hereditary thing,” she told him.

“Is it serious?” he asked.

Astoria didn’t answer, which was an answer in itself.

“Sorry,” he said, feeling foolish.

“It’s fine,” she shrugged and gave him a small smile. “It’s funny actually; it all goes back to this one-upmanship between families. An ancestor got on the wrong side of someone; got himself cursed ... and now I have to suffer the repercussions of it. It’s not worth it, is it? Any of it?”

“No,” Draco agreed. “It’s not.”


	7. Chapter 7

Draco allowed his parents to push him and Astoria together at an increasingly frequent rate over the next couple of months, and a lot happened within that time.

It was somehow decided (Draco having not been consulted in the matter) that it was about time for him to visit the Greengrasses’ place of residence. Technically, the invitations were always for the whole Malfoy family, but it was clear from the amount of effort both sets of parents spent ensuring that Draco and Astoria were in close proximity to one another as often as possible what every invitation’s true purpose was.

During their first visit, Mrs Greengrass encouraged Astoria heartily to show Draco “that marvellous card trick” and the pair of them had ended up at a table away from the rest of the company for almost the entirety of the Malfoy’s stay.

On the second occasion, Astoria had asked Draco loudly and clearly if he’d be interested in meeting some of the family portraits and had looked pointedly over her shoulder at her mother as she guided Draco from the room.

There were only so many times their parents could push them together under the pretence of family friendship; it wasn’t long before subtlety was dropped altogether

“Why don’t you go with Astoria?” Narcissa had suggested pointedly one afternoon, when Draco had told her he needed some items from Diagon Alley, under the hopes that his mother would pick them up for him and save him the trouble. Fortunately, that trip had lasted only as long as it took Draco to pick up some new parchment, ink and half of the books he’d actually wanted.

Everyone’s looking at you, an itching voice at the back of his mind had remarked at regular intervals as he’d hurried through each shop at quickly as he could. Nobody wants you here. Whether this was true or not he didn’t know because he refused to let himself check.

Astoria, seeming to sense Draco’s tension, had barely said a word until suggesting they call the trip a day, which he had been thankful for.

Thereafter, Draco and Astoria’s meetings had become individual invitations. To begin with, Draco resented every invite and its interference with whatever text his hours of solitude had been devoted to that week, but he never regretted Astoria’s company afterwards. After a while, their meetings stopped being a burden to his schedule altogether.

The Greengrass residence was a lot smaller than Malfoy Manor but it was still decked out with the pride of pure-blooded wizarding history. Astoria and Draco had drifted throughout both houses while sharing family trivia and titbits from both of their childhoods, as well as reminiscences of their days at school. Much of their personal and family histories matched, as was usual for the sacred pure-blood households, despite the Malfoys and Greengrasses not having had close relations in recent memory. Both had known the same social circles, both had been brought up under the same sort of customs and doctrines.

Sometimes they hardly said anything when they spoke. A lot of their time together was devoted to chitchat over cards or board games. While those afternoons were pleasant, he supposed, Draco usually found himself drifting before too long and at some point would realise he felt more like an observer to their conversation than a participant.

Other times, though, one or both of them would end up in the mood to talk more seriously, as they had done that day in the Manor’s garden. They did not talk about their feelings, which was fortunate as Draco would have had no idea how to go about that. But what they did say left Draco with a sense of something beyond himself – a vague sort of awareness of the bond that was forming between them.

He found out more about Astoria’s illness; a blood malediction passed down from a cursed ancestor, which had been slowly ravaging her body since birth. She tired quickly and both of them were thoroughly grateful for the other’s preference to spend their days quietly indoors. Draco now had the legitimate excuse of Astoria’s poor health when his mother tried to push them to spend more time in public.

Nevertheless, there was one matter on which Draco and Astoria did not share a connection. Astoria had attempted on several occasions to speak with Draco about the war; it was almost as though she had a need to get her own experiences off her chest and she seemed eager to understand his own. Draco needed quite the opposite of this; he would have preferred to forget that the war had happened altogether.

Despite this Draco found that, overall, he was looking forward to time spent with Astoria more and more. Perhaps his mother had been right; all he had needed was company. But he knew in his gut that there was more to it than that.

Soon, he admitted to himself that he was falling for her. They shared their first kiss on a bench in the Manor’s garden. It didn’t last long and afterwards they talked about the Quidditch league as though nothing had happened.

For the first time in a very long time, life seemed to be taking a turn in a direction that Draco could get along with. And all the while, in the back of his mind, he knew the whole thing was too good to last.

***

It was that very same evening, in fact, when everything began to fall apart again. Naturally it was not just Draco who had noticed what was happening between the pair of them and, while his mother could not possibly have known what had taken place in the garden that afternoon, she possessed the same inexplicable instincts that all mothers did when it came to their children.

As per usual, Draco’s mind had detached itself from his body and the buzz of his parents’ conversation washed over him as he ate. A family friend – or rather, a contact who was still reasonably intimidated by the name of Malfoy – was hosting a dinner party and Narcissa was clarifying details with her husband. Something she said caught Draco’s ears and brought his mind, which was still on the garden bench, into the present.

“...It’ll probably be easiest to collect Astoria from her house-“

“Has Astoria been invited?” Draco heard his voice say.

“No, but of course you’ll be bringing her,” Narcissa told him.

“Why?”

“Because she’s your partner,” Narcissa said with an air of obviousness.

“No she’s not,” said Draco.

“Don’t be ridiculous, of course she is.”

“No she’s not,” Draco repeated. “I haven’t asked Astoria if she wants to be my girlfriend.”

“I think it goes without saying,” said Narcissa knowingly.

“Mother, Astoria and I are not an item,” Draco persisted. “We’re just...”

“You’re just what?” his mother asked, a little irritably. “Draco, darling, you spent most of your lives together-“

“We don’t spend most of our lives-“

“It’s obvious you’re interested in each other.”

“No we’re not,” Draco lied. He could almost feel the maturity seeping out of him. “Well, yes, I like her, but you can’t just presume-“

“Oh, for God’s sake, not this again.” Lucius put his fork down. “Draco, make up your mind. Are you interested in the Greengrass girl or not?”

“Yes, I am, but-“

“Draco,” Lucius said loudly. “You are nearly twenty-three years old. Do you not belive it’s about time you started thinking seriously about your future?”

“What about my future?” Draco responded sulkily, prodding a potato with his fork.

“You know what,” said Lucius darkly.

“Father, I barely know her-“

“Then get to know her. Or stop wasting everybody’s time.”

There was a clatter and a scrape as Draco dropped his cutlery and pushed back his chair.

“I’m not hungry.”

“Draco, sit back down-“

But Draco was already out of the dining room door. His heart was pounding in his ears and his palms were inexplicably sweaty. A minute later, he slammed his bedroom door behind him and paced around the room, breathing very quickly.

He wasn’t ready for this. He liked Astoria, yes, but his parents were thinking of more than that – much more. They hadn’t said it, but he knew exactly what they’d been thinking. Had they been assuming all this time that Draco had been getting ready to propose? Had they been anticipating the moment when Draco asked his mother for her own mother’s engagement ring, which she had told him years previously would one day adorn the hand of his fiancée? Did they really think that he and Astoria were that far along? Were they expecting grandchildren any day now?

He was not ready for any of this. Draco didn’t know what he wanted and he didn’t know how he felt. He liked Astoria, he really, really did. But he could not settle with her just yet – he couldn’t even think about it.

He hadn’t even considered how Astoria might feel about the whole situation. Perhaps she was thinking along the same lines as Draco’s parents. Perhaps she was expecting him to pop the question any day.

Draco couldn’t be doing with this – not yet. He was not ready to settle down. He was not ready to commit to marriage, or to set up his own family. He was not ready for a future.

It was his own fault. He shouldn’t have let himself feel like he did. He had been safe in his solitude, but he had let his parents push him into their way of living once again, after he’d told himself – promised himself – that he had changed.

And now he had something good, something he did not want to let go of. But he would have to let it go – drop the whole thing – let her go – if life were to be the same as it had been before.

But Draco had not liked the way life had been before – not for the past few years anyway. He did not want to push her away. But was it right to hold on?

Draco did not know what to do.

Dumbledore, frail and failing, standing on the Astronomy Tower, eyes boring into Draco’s ... “I can help you, Draco” ... “You are not a killer” ... Draco’s wand hand shaking ... Dumbledore falling beyond the battlements...

He did not know what to do.

Draco dragging the bodies of the unconscious snatchers into the courtyard ... he was told to kill them but he couldn’t ... Hermione Granger, writhing on the floor, screaming; screams that reverberated around Draco’s brain...

He did not want to think about this.

The Dark Lord was addressing him and he looked to his father for help but his father gave no response ...

He did not want to think about this.

“Severus! Help me!” Professor Burbage begged ...

No.

“Severus ... please ...” said Dumbledore ...

No.

Someone was screaming ... Draco had no idea who ... everyone was screaming ...

NO.


	8. Chapter 8

Oh dear lord, Draco thought as he woke up. I’m still here.

He thought the same sort of things every morning now. Oh god, here we go again. Life was a routine: wake up, fill time, go to bed. It was a waste, every second of it. Every evening before he fell asleep, he would wonder why on earth he had bothered. And then he would wake up the following morning, just as exhausted in his mind as before his sleep, and go through the whole charade again.

He had things worth living for; he had people who, for some reason, cared for him. It should have been enough. But it wasn’t.

***

Astoria was staying for dinner. Draco supposed he ought to have looked forward to it beforehand, but he couldn’t quite muster up the enthusiasm. Even Astoria was no longer enough to make yet another day seem worthwhile.

They had passed the afternoon playing card games in the drawing room. It had been fun at the time – he had thrashed her at Exploding Snap – but once she went home Draco knew it would feel like yet another waste of an afternoon.

Dinner was steak and kidney pie. The pie was good, but nobody was particularly enjoying it thanks to Lucius who had been annoyed by the headlines in the Daily Prophet that morning and had consequently been in a foul mood all day.

“Rights for House Elves,” he muttered, while stabbing chunk of steak with unnecessary ferocity. “Whoever heard of such rubbish? What next, a goblin for Minister?”

The whole table was fed up with Lucius’ poor mood. It was one of those days when whatever anybody said to him would be the wrong thing. The best solution was to keep quiet and wait for something to happen to lift his spirits again. Draco had almost twenty-three years of experience in the matter. Astoria was eating very rigidly.

“We know what all this is about, of course,” Lucius continued matter-of-factly. “Anti-Pure-Blood mania. This blasted New Age Ministry has had a vendetta against us from Day One. So long as Shacklebolt keeps allowing loudmouthed scum like that Granger girl sway the public with their Muggle-loving propaganda, pure wizardry is going to diminish by the day. Sooner or later, they’ll be having us forsake our culture altogether.”

“I think it’s good that the world’s progressing.”

Three pairs of eyes snapped onto Astoria’s. Don’t do it, Draco tried to warn her wordlessly, but she wasn’t looking at him.

Lucius’ face turned to stone.

“I beg your pardon?” he asked her, very coldly.

“I think it’s good that we’re learning to be more tolerant of one another,” Astoria persisted. “Society’s becoming fairer for everyone.”

“Civilised society is not designed to be fair for everyone,” Lucius told her stiffly. “Right of place in the hierarchy of life is the privilege of those who deserve it. It is wizardkind’s duty, as the most powerful creatures to walk this world, to rule over all lesser beasts and beings, both non-magical and non-human. It is not within our duty to tolerate those beneath us. I am surprised your parents never taught you this.”

“Oh, they did,” Astoria responded, equally coolly. “But I think they’re wrong.”

There was a loud clatter as Lucius’ cutlery fell to his plate.

“And this is a fine example of everything that is wrong with the modern age. You, young lady,” Lucius continued, wagging a finger at Astoria across the table, “Are the daughter of one of twenty-eight pure-wizard families. Just twenty-eight lines of pure-wizard blood remain from ancient times and you are telling me that you would smear your blood with the dirt of the beings that drove our people into hiding, whose offspring diminish our culture and undermine our traditions with each passing day? It is thanks to Muggles and Muggle-sympathising riff raff that you cannot practise your magic freely in public.”

“I never said I wanted to marry a Muggle,” said Astoria, sitting up very straight in her chair. “But I do think we should learn to better understand them, as people.”

“You are blinded by the namby-pamby, Mudblood-loving sentimentality of the modern age!” Lucius bellowed.

“Lucius, please,” Narcissa hissed across the table.

“You’re blinded by the outdated, bigoted views you grew up with!” Astoria retorted.

“Astoria, leave it,” Draco warned.

Lucius slammed his hand onto the table.

“I will not have you coming into my home, eating as a guest at my table and insulting all this family stands for with your childish delusions and I will not have you spreading your foul, foolish opinions onto my son!”

“I think we ought to finish here,” said Narcissa hastily.

***

Lucius was still fuming long after Astoria had departed. She had burst into tears as soon as Draco ushered her from the dining room and he had felt similarly shaken having seen her out of the house.

“I think it would be a wise decision on your part,” Lucius said sternly to his son, sometime after she had gone, “To distance yourself from that girl and her family.”

Just like that, Lucius did not want Astoria in Draco’s life anymore. All it took was a difference of opinion and all the months of pushing them together, of throwing Draco headfirst into feelings he wasn’t yet ready to confront, of forcing him to make up the mind he no longer controlled ... gone. That was all it had taken.

But, of course, it was not just a difference of opinion to Lucius. Even the slightest pro-Muggle sentiment was a blow in the face of all he held sacred. It was the deal breaker he would never overcome. Draco and Astoria were not meant to be, so long as Lucius remained the way that Lucius Malfoy was.

And Draco couldn’t stand it. He could not live like this anymore.

Everything would be sorted, he thought, as he lay in bed that night, If I ran away and started life again.

He closed his eyes breathing heavily.

Or if I didn’t wake up. That would be even simpler. Then life would never feel like a waste again.

His eyes flickered open and fell on the dark velvet curtains that concealed the small balcony behind his bedroom window.

Or I could jump.

Images he didn’t want to see were fluttering through his thoughts once again, the way they always did when he was panicking.

Go away, he wanted to shout. Leave me in peace.

But he would not be in peace, regardless of what horrors he tried to suppress. He would never be in peace, because he did not deserve it. What was the point of keeping the memories out, when they would only resurface another day, more vivid and more horrendous than ever before? They would never let him go. He had brought this all on himself.

Albus Dumbledore had looked Draco in the eye as Draco threatened murder, a weak and frail old man who represented everything Draco openly hated, at the mercy of a stupid boy who had already caused two near-fatalities that year out of fear for his own life and disregard for any other ... and Dumbledore had offered him help. And Draco had stood by as Greyback breathed beside him, willing himself not to vomit, and watched the light leave the old man’s eyes.

Charity Burbage was the teacher Draco had never had, whose body had hung upside down over the drawing room table, until the Dark Lord had revived her. She had begged Professor Snape for help and Snape had been able to do nothing as the table laughed at her terror ... and Draco had fainted at the moment of her death. 

Thorfinn Rowle was the name of the man Draco had personally tortured on the Dark Lord’s orders and Draco had stood there and watched him scream and contort by his own hand because he had been too scared to do anything else.

And Draco had done nothing but stand and watch again as Hermione Granger, who Draco had hated and envied and insulted and bullied, screamed in pure agony on the drawing room floor.

And even then Draco had still tried to capture Harry Potter during the Battle itself, and had still tried to throw his soul at the Dark Lord who embodied every pain, every misery and every torment Draco had ever endured, and even Vincent Crabbe, who Draco watched burn in his own Fiendfyre, knew that he was too pitiful to know what else to do with himself. And Harry Potter had saved his life.

And because of all the misery he had caused and all the evil he had supported and all that he owed those who had shown him mercy, Draco Malfoy did not deserve anything good.

***

He couldn’t let Astoria go.


	9. Chapter 9

Draco turned up on the Greengrass’ doorstep early the following morning. Thankfully they were early risers, although Mrs Greengrass still looked fairly confused to see him there.

“Is Astoria available?” he asked bluntly.

He was invited into the house but Draco had no intention of staying.

“I’ve come to take you to Hogsmeade,” he told Astoria the moment she arrived in the hallway.

“I didn’t know we were going out,” she replied bemusedly.

“We weren’t.”

Draco gave her enough time to grab her money bag and a cloak before quite literally taking her by the arm and pulling her from the house.

“What’s brought on this impulsive streak?” Astoria giggled as Draco pulled her down the driveway at an almost run.

Draco shrugged. “We’re young. Let’s act like it for once.”

They slipped beyond the gate; Astoria took Draco’s arm and the pair of them disapparated.

Hogsmeade village was just as much of a postcard as always, its thatched roofs bright and jolly in the crisp morning sunshine. There was a light breeze in the air which rustled through Draco’s hair. He breathed in deeply, letting the morning soak into his lungs.

“So, where to?” Astoria asked, her face turned up to his.

Draco smiled back.

“Everywhere,” he said.

The village was significantly quieter than either of them was used to, with the complete absence of Hogwarts students. Draco directed Astoria into Honeydukes first and they had the shop almost to themselves. The bald man behind the counter eyed the two customers. Draco hadn’t been here since his schooldays and he realised, a little awkwardly, that he was perhaps a little old to be taking his girlfriend to a sweetshop.

Or was he too old? Who on earth had decided at what age it stopped being acceptable to enjoy yourself? Why should he let some old shopkeeper’s judgement stop him from doing exactly what he wanted?

Draco grabbed several paper bags at once and began to shove in every type of sweet in arm’s reach. Astoria very quickly followed suit. The pair of them flew around the shop, making good use of its emptiness, until a bit of everything filled their arms. Several pepper imps spilt out of one of Draco’s bags as he dumped it onto the counter.

“That’ll be one Galleon and five Knuts,” the shopkeeper told him, as he weighed Draco’s bags with raised eyebrows.

Back in the street, after paying up, Astoria was incredulous.

“I can’t believe you spent a Galleon on sweets!”

“And it’ll be worth every Knut,” Draco responded, shoving a sugar mouse into his mouth.

“Not when you throw up, it won’t.”

They headed into Gladrags next, in which Astoria’s eye was immediately taken by a long, velvet cloak in deepest purple, embroidered with glittering black beads.

“Have it,” Draco said immediately. “I’ll pay.”

Astoria took the cloak without even pretending to argue.

They were less popular customers at Scrivenshaft’s, in which Draco poked Astoria with a singing quill, which then turned into a full-blown poking match to the tune of Odo the Hero, until Draco bought the entire set just to stop the shopkeeper from shouting at them. They almost got kicked out of Zonko’s, too, for setting off half the products in the near-empty shop.

“It has to be a feat, nearly being sent out of a joke shop for annoying the owner,” Astoria laughed as they meandered down the street again, arm in arm.

It was not far off lunch time, but Draco was not much in the mood for sitting down. He pulled Astoria into the post office instead, where they proceeded to irritate the staff by ignoring the postal charges and petting the owls instead.

“I’m getting quite thirsty,” Astoria hinted strongly as they wandered towards the Three Broomsticks.

Draco still wasn’t in the mood for sitting down, but he, too, could have done with a drink. Not from here, though.

“Somewhere else,” Draco told Astoria quietly, steering her past the entrance.

“Why?” Astoria asked confusedly.

“I ... er ... sort of cursed the landlady in my sixth year.”

“Oh,” Astoria flushed. Draco didn’t want to dampen the mood.

“There’s the Hog’s Head,” he suggested.

“I am not drinking in the Hog’s Head,” Astoria told him firmly.

“I don’t blame you,” said Draco. “I just thought you might want a proper drink.”

“This early in the day?”

“We can drink Firewhiskey legally now,” Draco shrugged.

“You’re awful, you know?”

“Yeah ... I’ve been told that.”

For a moment, Draco was worried he’d ruined the atmosphere again. But, thankfully, Astoria was in a lighter mood.

“There’s Madam Puddifoot’s?” she suggested.

“Isn’t that that awful tea shop with the frilly decor?”

“Didn’t Pansy Parkinson ever take you in?” Astoria asked him, smirking.

“She tried to. Is it as gross as it she made it sound?”

“Even worse,” Astoria grinned.

“Well, I think I’ve got to see it now.”

Draco regretted this decision immediately. Like the rest of Hogsmeade, the tea shop was quiet but, this close to lunch time, it was far from deserted. Two tables already housed customers which, in the tiny, closely packed room, made the place feel rather crowded – to Draco, at least.

People are looking, Draco told himself, although he hadn’t actually checked.

Astoria was halfway to a table, however, so he had no choice but to follow. To his relief, she chose to sit against a wall, meaning there were no people on one side of them at least. Draco turned his attention to the very lacy table cloth, catching an edge of it between his fingers.

Astoria snorted.

“It’s not that bad,” she muttered and Draco realised his feelings must have been showing on his face.

Fortunately, neither of them was much in the mood for any food, after the huge amount of sweets they had consumed that morning, so Draco only had to remain in the shop long enough to finish a cup of tea. He took two huge gulps as soon as the stout witch who he assumed was Madam Puddifoot herself left their table, burning his mouth in the process, then realised that he probably ought to pace himself for Astoria’s sake.

He glanced around at the rest of the shop, taking in the single stout, grey-haired man at the far wall and the chattering couple by the window. He snapped his eyes quickly back to his own table and focused on the china sugar pot instead.

“Are you all right?” Astoria asked him.

“Yeah – fine,” Draco answered hurriedly, realising a moment too late he’d been tapping his fingers against the tablecloth since he’d set his tea cup down. He took another quick sip.

Astoria tried to make conversation with him but, for the first time that day, Draco was no longer in the present. He smiled and nodded and drank from his tea cup when he thought it was appropriate, but all the while the majority of his attention was on the overwhelming urge to escape from the shop.

When Astoria had finally finished (Draco having drained his own cup several minutes previously), he jumped up immediately to pay and hurried straight back onto the street, relief flooding through Draco’s chest as they reached the fresh air.

“You’re energetic today,” Astoria commented fondly.

Draco smiled back, but his heart was beating very quickly. What was wrong with him? He’d managed to sit down to tea before. But he hadn’t liked that at all.

People were looking.

No they weren’t.

They had to do something else; something to bring back the good humour he’d been in earlier. Somehow, in the time they’d spent sitting down – which, Draco discovered while checking his watch, had only been ten minutes – a great blockage of energy had built up inside him.

“C’mon,” he said breathlessly, taking Astoria by the wrist.

He trotted the pair of them back up the high street. He was in no mood to go into any more shops just yet; the fresh air was doing him good. He pulled Astoria out of the village altogether and broke into a half run as they stepped off the main track.

The Shrieking Shack eased into sight as they hurtled up the slope upon which it rested. The ground was unpleasantly wet and slimy and Draco vaguely remembered having sludge thrown at him, one visit to the village many years ago; it was the day he had discovered that Potter owned an invisibility cloak.

The pair of them came to a halt at the fence. Draco leaned into it for support as he regained his breath, while Astoria bent double. Their shoes and the bottom of their clothes were splattered with muck. Astoria’s hair was thoroughly windswept and, as she straightened up, a light breeze rustled through it. He felt the overwhelming urge to touch it, and so he did, running the fingers of his right hand into it until they caught on a knot. Warmth spread through his fingertips and into his hand from her scalp. She lifted her head upwards, towards his; her usually gaunt cheeks were high in colour.

Draco moved his face towards hers and her mouth came up to meet his. Her lips were chapped from the cold, but it didn’t matter. Their bags bumped against each other as their lips met and parted.

The kiss seemed to last an age and only ended when Draco lifted his face away from hers for fear of it never stopping. They remained stationary several moments longer, wrapped in each other’s gaze, Astoria’s face beaming into his, and his down at hers.

They ambled back towards the village at a fraction of the speed they’d run up the hill, hand in hand and Draco feeling about fourteen again which, as far as he was concerned, was a very good thing indeed. He had enjoyed being fourteen.

They went around the remainder of the village in less than an hour, flitting between shops but their minds still up by the Shrieking Shack. More than once, one of them caught the other’s eye and both broke into smirks.

It was mid-afternoon when they wandered back to the point at which they had apparated. Astoria swayed lightly as she walked, in a contented sort of way, leaning into Draco’s left arm. Draco read from her body language that she had had a perfectly satisfactory sort of day.

But he wasn’t ready for the day to be over – not yet. Because, if the day were over, he would have nowhere to return to but home and the depths of his thoughts and there was enough of the day left that he did not much fancy being stuck in either.

“Shall we head over to Diagon Alley now?” he suggested.

Astoria came to a halt and looked at him. Her face had paled a little.

“I’m getting quite tired,” she told him. “I could probably do with some rest.”

“You can rest this evening,” Draco insisted.

“No, really – I...” Astoria faltered. “It’s not that I don’t want to, it’s just ... I get really tired if I keep going too long. I’ve had a lovely morning,” she added, as though to rectify the situation.

Draco felt his face harden.

“Well, if you’d rather go home than spend more time with me.”

“Draco.” Astoria sounded at a loss at the sudden change of mood. “I’m ill.”

“So ... what? You’re going to let your illness run your life?”

“No ... I ... fine,” Astoria conceded irritably. “We’ll go to Diagon Alley.”

“No, no, not if you don’t want to-“

“Oh, for God’s sake.” A couple of shoppers glanced over at them as they passed. “Let’s just go.”

The air in Diagon Alley was significantly cooler than in Hogsmeade, although Draco assumed this had more to do with the atmosphere surrounding the pair of them than in the alley itself. Astoria wrapped her cloak around her more tightly, and headed into the apothecary without looking at him.

The problem was that much of what Diagon Alley had was very similar to what was in Hogsmeade. There was nothing in the apothecary that they hadn’t already seen that day and both of them grew bored quickly. Now that Draco’s good mood had worn off, the sense that he was unwelcome in the long, cobbled street was creeping over him more strongly than ever. There were some shops down Knockturn Alley that he wouldn’t have minded visiting, out of interest alone, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to face them, or the people in them, that afternoon. Instead, he and Astoria scanned titles in Flourish and Blotts without taking any in, glanced at the window display in Quality Quidditch Supplies without heading inside and gave the meekest of glances at the wares of the numerous peddlers along the street.

Astoria had not lied about tiring after a busy morning. It became apparent quickly that her energy was dropping fast, the colour draining slowly from her face. It was only as they passed the ice cream parlour that had once been owned by Florian Fortescue that Draco realised it was time to admit defeat; Astoria looked close to fainting.

“C’mon,” he said quietly, taking her by the upper arm and all but steering her into the Leaky Cauldron.

Astoria allowed herself to be directed to a table and buried her face in her hands while Draco went to order drinks and food on both their behalves.

People really are staring at us now, he thought as he took the seat next to hers. And they were too; several other customers were openly ogling the pair of them, unsurprisingly considering Astoria’s current state.

It didn’t matter, though It’s my own fault, Draco thought. I pushed her too far, so now I can deal with it.

“I’m so sorry,” he muttered.

Astoria lowered her hands. There were tears around the hollows of her eyes, but she gave him a small smile.

“It’s all right,” she said quietly.

“No, it’s not. I shouldn’t have pushed you. I’m sorry.”

Their bags had been dumped onto a spare chair at the table. Astoria fumbled around inside one with one hand and pulled out a fizzing whizbee.

“I’ve always thought sweets are the best way to make friends,” she murmured softly.

Draco took her other hand gently in his; the palm was wet from her eyes.

“I love you, you know.”

Astoria squeezed Draco’s hand in return.

“I love you, too.”


	10. Chapter 10

Life did not improve quickly. In fact, for a long while, it didn’t look like it was going to improve at hall.

Their brief falling out in Hogsmeade had been Draco and Astoria’s first proper argument and, now that it was out of the way, it was as though a floodgate had opened and, all of a sudden, everything from petty disagreements to full on blazing rows seemed to be breaking out amongst the couple as quickly and as easily as acne on a teenager.

Draco had never noticed before just how much there was about Astoria that annoyed him. For a start, she seemed absolutely incapable of making a solid decision. When Draco asked her what she wanted to do with the day, her answers ranged from “I don’t mind.” to “What do you want to do today?” Astoria justified herself by claiming that she genuinely wanted to do what made Draco happy, but Draco could not understand how she hadn’t realised that he wouldn’t have asked for her input if he’d had any particular activity in mind himself.

On similar lines, Draco didn’t believe he had ever received a straight answer to a simple question. When he had asked Astoria if she liked Gillywater, she had told him that she used to hate it as a child but liked it more now, when all he had wanted was a ‘yes’ or a ‘no’. When he had asked Astoria if she wanted the final cake, she had offered it to him instead, which had resulted in the pair of them arguing about why Draco would have offered the cake to her in the first place if he wanted it for himself.

There were also things that Astoria said or did that only irritated him depending on what mood he was in. On Tuesday, she had interrupted Draco while he was reading the Daily Prophet by wrapping her arms around his shoulders from behind the sofa. He had thoroughly appreciated this sign of affection and leaned back to kiss her. On Thursday she had done virtually the same thing while he was reading about alchemy in Ancient Egypt and he had snapped at her for causing him to lose his place.

The constant stream of discouragement towards the relationship from his parents did nothing to help, either. Since the disastrous lunch, Lucius and Narcissa had not ceased to pile on Draco all the reasons why the Greengrasses were an unsuitable family to be associated with. Both were also furious that, despite their protestations, Draco had still not ended his communication with the Greengrass family. He could barely touch his morning pumpkin juice before his father griped at him about seeing that Greengrass girl yet again. Consequently, there were mornings in which Draco was fed up with everything relating to Astoria before they had even met up.

On the other hand, Astoria did not always take Draco’s mood swings compliantly.

“For Merlin’s sake,” she had muttered after the incident on Thursday, which had only resulted in rattling Draco more.

The atmosphere between them had been hostile since then. Draco had refrained from exploding there and then, but that only made it feel as though the matter were unresolved and Astoria had remained sullen for the rest of the afternoon. An oncoming argument hung in the air. They had said their goodbyes that evening on polite but thoroughly unpleasant terms.

When they met up as agreed on Saturday, Draco was already feeling especially irritable, having been entreated with yet another earful from his parents over breakfast. Draco knew immediately from the way Astoria’s expression darkened as she greeted him that he must have been looking fairly dower and the fact that Astoria had had the impudence to acknowledge his surliness at all irked him further.

He was equally vexed when, a short while, she began to chat to him brightly about a Witch Weekly article on Viktor Krum’s life post-retirement from Quidditch, as though there was nothing wrong at all.

“He’s got himself a girlfriend, you know,” Astoria was blabbering. “Some Bulgarian girl.”

“Has he?” Draco responded uninterestedly.

“Yeah, there was a picture of her in the article. She’s absolutely stunning, of course. Although he’s more into brainy girls isn’t he?”

“I don’t know,” said Draco staring pointedly at his book.

“Well, he had that brief thing with Hermione Granger during the Triwizard Tournament, didn’t he? Half the girls in the school hated her for it. I can’t believe I was only twelve then.”

Draco turned his page angrily, having not taken in most of the previous paragraph.

“I’d have killed to be in her shoes back then, but nowadays I think there’s something to be said for being a nonentity. This poor girl’s going have a rough time if she’s got brains and beauty.”

“Do you ever shut up?” Draco barked, snapping his book abruptly shut.

“I beg your pardon?”

“I am trying to read, in case you haven’t noticed, which is near bloody impossible with your constant jabbering at me.”

“And, in case you haven’t noticed, you are in my garden as a guest in my house and I was under the assumption you had come over here to spend time with me rather than your blessed book,” Astoria retorted hotly.

“Well if my presence isn’t good enough for you, I go then, shall I?” Draco shouted, standing up so suddenly that his book clattered to the ground.

“What is wrong with you?” Astoria yelled back, rising to meet him. “You’ve been in an absolutely foul mood since you got here.”

“Well, is it any wonder? I came over here to spend time with you and all you want to talk about is bloody Viktor Krum.”

“I’ve been talking about Viktor Krum because I don’t know what else to talk about because you’ve barely looked at me all morning.”

“Oh, so it’s all my fault is it?” shouted Draco. “Well, then, it looks like I can’t do anything right.”

“What have I done?” Astoria shrieked. “You’ve been on at me like this for weeks. We used to get on so well, but now I can barely do anything without you snapping at me. I feel like I’m constantly walking on eggshells around you because I’ve no idea what mood you’re going to be in from one moment to the next.”

“Well maybe my parents have got it right, then,” Draco bellowed. “Maybe we aren’t so suited to each other after all.” The last bit came out in a sob. He had started crying.

Draco wiped a hand furiously over his eyes and retook his seat on the garden bench.

God, this is attractive, he thought as Astoria rejoined him.

“Your parents have said that, have they?” she asked quietly.

Draco sniffed and wiped at his eyes again. The skin around his eyes was hot and wet and the tears were now flowing freely, as though a dam that had been built up over several weeks had suddenly burst open.

“They weren’t too impressed by your Muggle-sympathising sentiments,” he told Astoria shakily.

“And you?” she responded.

Draco shuddered.

“I am so tired of constantly feeling guilty for wanting to enjoy life again,” he whispered.

“What do you feel guilty for?” Astoria asked him gently.

Draco almost laughed.

“Everything,” he said. “Whatever I do in life, it’s never going to be good enough.”

“Does it matter to you so much what your parents think?”

“It’s not just them.” Draco sniffed again. His cheeks were soaked. “I’ve done a lot of wrong. I should have had it worse. That’s what everyone thinks. I think I’ve always known that, too.”

Astoria took his hand and rested both, interlocked, in her lap.

“Is that what you want? Punishment?”

Draco shook his head.

“But I probably deserve it.”

“More punishment than this?”

Draco gave her a small, watery smile

“Feeling sorry for myself isn’t much punishment in the grand scheme of things.”

“No, but if you did find some way to atone for everything you’ve ever done, would you be doing it for the good of the world, or to make yourself feel better?”

“So I’m an awful person, whatever I do?”

Astoria gave his hand a hard squeeze.

“You can’t change the past,” she told him firmly. “But you can choose what you do with yourself from this moment on. And, even if the whole world hates you for it, the only person you owe anything to is yourself.”

“I just want to be happy,” Draco said quietly. “But, at the moment, it doesn’t feel like it’s ever going to get better.”

“It will,” Astoria told him gently. “The worst has happened and you’re still here.”

They sat in silence for a while, aside from Draco’s sniffling, at looked out over the garden. It was a lot smaller than the Manor’s but a butterfly fluttered around a nearby bush, hovering from flower to flower as though nothing in the world was wrong.

“The whole world doesn’t hate you, by the way,” said Astoria suddenly. “I like you.”

“Thanks,” said Draco. “Why exactly?”

“A bad person would already be happy in your shoes. Their views would never have changed; not even in the slightest. You’re a better person than you know. You’re a person who loves. You love your mother and your father so much that you’ve always tried to do what’s best for them. But it’s time to live for yourself now.”

The butterfly flitted away from the bush, hovered for a moment in the air, then disappeared into the afternoon sun.


	11. Chapter 11

It was a bright and entirely breezeless Friday morning when Draco and Astoria’s engagement was announced in the Daily Prophet. They would be married shortly before he turned twenty four.

The morning of the announcement was tense, to say the least. To describe Lucius’ reaction to the proposal as disappointment would have been something of an understatement. His father had objected profusely, but Draco found that his father’s opinion did not hold much sway over the way he chose to live his life any more. Perhaps it was because Draco no longer feared him. Or because he had long since learned that his father was just as human as he was.

Narcissa wasn’t happy either, but she at least had managed to confine her disapproval to little more than scornful remarks.

“I suppose I’ll have to put up with that awful mother of hers now,” she had sighed after Draco had bluntly told his parents that he had asked Astoria to marry him.

“I thought you liked Astoria’s mother?” Draco had reacted, surprised.

“She is a woman of good breeding, pure-blood and with two daughters of marrying age. Of course I like her,” Narcissa had responded indifferently.

Draco had always imagined marriage as something of a new chapter in life and in many ways it would be. Soon he and his wife would be living in the Manor alone together and soon Draco’s life would no longer be just his own.

But, in many other ways, life was just the same as ever before. Time rolled by in its mellow way and then, in seemingly no time at all, the wedding day would be upon them and Draco would wonder how on earth so much time had passed.

Draco’s old interests had not all returned, but he probably shouldn’t have expected them to. He was not a teenage boy any longer; it was time that he focused on the here and now.

Draco Malfoy was not an entirely new person because people were not phoenixes and could not be born anew, whatever the alchemists may say. But he was older and he had learned and he would continue to learn. He had learned to accept that the past had happened and there was nothing he could do about that. Dark times lay behind and more dark times may be waiting, but what he did with the present was within his control. The worst had happened and he had survived. He had remembered how to hope.

Draco did not feel happy in many aspects of his life, but he certainly felt he was working towards a brighter future. Astoria had a way of seeing the best in him, while acknowledging but forgiving his flaws. It was Draco’s choice whose opinions mattered and it was Astoria’s opinions which mattered the most.

Life with Astoria would not be perfect; there were many barriers and many obstacles which would hinder them in their pursuit for the happy future that he longed for and she deserved. All would not be well. But it would be better; Draco would make sure of it. And that was good enough.


End file.
